Ex-military, washed up/over MMA fighter, tiny space, new town, and a Welsh corgi, Homer. Gotta love the sweet dog and two damaged men with different reasons behind the damage. Matt and Will takes what life has dealt them and spin it in their own way. There was something about the other that drew them together. This read was told with dual POV. Allowing a closer look at what each one was going through.

Say you love scared, dark, damaged, men with hot public sex with each other then you have a read for an hour or two. This was a quickie MM Romance read in the FEARless series from All Romance and its contributing authors.

**This ARC was provided via Bewitching Book Tours in
exchange for an honest review.**

Blackened windows, a 400-square foot
self-made prison, and a loyal Welsh corgi—that’s the extent of former soldier
Matthew Ash’s world. Matt’s tasted hell’s battlefield. He wears the scars on
his skin and soul to prove it. Matt’s agoraphobia keeps his demons out and
that’s all that matters.

Burnt-out MMA fighter Will Grove is
having the worst year of his life. His boyfriend broke up with him and he just
lost the fight of the decade. He moves to a new town, seeking a fresh start.
Everyone tells him to watch for the crazy recluse, but Will makes his own
rules. One glimpse of Matt is all Will needs to recognize a man whose mind is
fucked-up as his own.

Matt’s certain Will’s going to run.
Will’s out to prove this is one fight he’s not going to lose.

I don’t like small
talk, but that doesn’t mean I’m not good with it. After half an hour, I make up
an excuse that I need to meet a friend. Before the Cumbers leave, Martha takes
me aside and says five strange words.

“Watch for the crazy
recluse.”

“Excuse me?”

Stuart winces. “Unit
311, next to yours. No one has seen the tenant since he moved in six months
ago.”

“Ever? Even to take
the morning paper?” I ask, unable to hide the intrigue in my voice.

Martha shakes her
head. “He trained his dog to fetch it for him. These days, everything can be
ordered online, including groceries. I think he allows the delivery guy in.”

“Don’t tell me we’re
all holed up with a serial killer?” I joke, but they don’t find it funny. They
look dead serious.

“Once, Old Ted from
312 came knocking. Tried to invite him to a floor party, but the guy shoved the
barrel of a shotgun at Ted’s face. Nearly gave the old guy another heart
attack,” Stuart says.

“And no one’s
reported this to the police?” I ask.

Martha shakes her
head. “He hasn’t hurt anyone yet. We thought he was secretly growing weed in
there, but the cops came out clean, shaking their heads.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks
for the tip.”

I close the door and
sit myself in my empty kitchen. Stuart’s right. The pie’s amazing. I finish it
off in a forkful of generous bites and down it with two bottles of the town’s
locally brewed beer. Something this sinful screws with my diet, but I think I
can afford a break. Later, when I have things sorted out, I’ll head to the
supermarket and buy my essentials in bulk.

“Damn,” I mutter,
still tasting the cold and smooth amber liquid down my throat. “They never said
they make good beers, too. Maybe self-exile won’t be such a bad thing after
all.”

Fuck. I might even
pick up some hobby. Gardening or some relaxing shit to pass the time. Get my
stress levels way down. Maybe, if I feel a little wild, I’ll swing by the
roadhouse I spotted on the way here. Time to strap on a pair of balls and see
if there are some rugged cowboys or lost young men looking for a night out.

My stomach churns at
the thought of being with another man other than Gary.

I’ve been out of the
dating game for half a decade, five fucking years down the drain just like
that. Sixty months of manufactured memories. In the end, Gary made it plain he
only valued me for one thing—for being a winner. It only took one loss for Gary
to sever the bonds and move on, not caring about the scars he left behind.

I only need to look
at my boxes to see bits and pieces of Gary poking out the cartons. Shows what a
pussy I am, keeping reminders of him without his knowledge. I flinch at them
all—Gary’s favorite Seahawks sweatshirt and the pair of cheap sunglasses I bought
him when we vacationed in Rio. The gun-shaped lighter he loved, along with the
button he earned from Nicotine Anonymous for staying clean for six months.

It never stuck. Gary
doesn’t like consistency. He got his kicks then moved on, same with people. Any
therapist will tell me that all this is unhealthy behavior. Better to forget
the past and move on. I can’t. Gary’s things are puzzle pieces I need. Someday,
I’ll piece them all up and understand why he left me.

I’m hopeful they
might even contain answers on how I can win him back. For now, I’ll remain in
Oakville. Get lean and back in shape. Good enough to win fights in the rings,
and Gary.

The sound of clanging
pans startles me back to reality. I narrow my eyes. My body tenses, ready to
spring into action. A curse comes from next door, from the thin walls
separating me from the psycho living there. I stand and press my ear against
the wall.

A dog barks, followed
by a gruff voice. My mysterious neighbor begins coaxing his pet in soothing
tones. I can’t make out the words yet, but the stranger on the other side
sparks my interest. Is he an old grump, some misunderstood vet who wants to be
left alone? Can he be a disturbed young man, plotting something sinister?

I snort. “Look at me.
I’ve got nothing better to do than eavesdrop on my neighbor. Oh, and talking to
myself. All I need is to get a cat.”

Disgusted, I pull
away. A list. I need one to be organized and remain sane. It takes me an hour
to find a notepad and a working pen from my boxes. I plan what I need to do for
the next few hours, days, and weeks. Work’s good. It helps elevate the pain and
rage. Makes it easier to lock them up in a box and forget them for a while.
Sooner or later, I’ll need to take out that box. Confront my fears, but not today.

Still, I check my
phone for messages or emails from Burt Green, my manager, or Gary. I hate
myself after, for allowing myself to feel self-pity.

Angelique Voisen is a bisexual,
twenty-something, type-2 diabetic and multi-pubbed writer who favors LGBT and
ménage pairings. She likes experimenting with different sub-genres and her
stories may include cogs, fangs, space battles, kinky magic systems and
happily-ever-afters. When Angel’s not writing, she’s gaming, watching B-rated
action movies, or enjoying teatime with friends while enviously eyeing their
cake.